The Mystery of the Drowned Fish
by Purple Waterlilies
Summary: Something goes bump in the night, and John gets a bit of a surprise. Normalcy returns six months after the Fall. Murders, hilarity and adventures ensue. What else could happen, now that the gang's all back together again? Post-Reichenbach, and eventual Johnlock.
1. Bloody Git!

_**Author's Note: **_**Hello, all! Welcome to the **_**Mystery of the Drowned Fish**_**!**__**This is my first Sherlock fic. My best friend gave me Sherlock for my birthday, without warning about the end of The Reichenbach Fall. So, to deal with the Reichenfeels, I started this. It is a Post-Reichenbach Fall story, so there are a few spoilers. It also eventually become a bit Johnlocky, so though it won't be for a while (you know how those two can be!), if you object to it, you're forewarned. A huge thank you to OboeChica, my fantastic Beta! Without her, this would be impossible. **

_**Disclaimer: **_**I own Sherlock, Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman. Gatiss and Moffat are under my employ. Yeah, I wish… -sigh- I own nothing, I just take the boys out to play, no infringement on BBC's brilliance or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's original books. **

Chapter one- Bloody Git!

It had been six months - to the day- since Sherlock Holmes had thrown himself off the roof of St. Bartholomew's when John Watson finally moved back into the flat at 221B Baker Street. It'd been a long week for John, what with moving his things from Harry's, where he'd been staying, and long shifts at the surgery. All of John's patients today seemed especially annoying and whiney, but that was probably because he wanted to go _home_. _His _home, not Harry's. The place he had gotten to know so well while helping Sherlock with his cases. Every time John walked in he expected to hear his best friend whine about being bored or wanting tea or asking if John had gotten milk. It hurt, but John didn't care, because it meant he remembered. He sighed as he unlocked the flat, calling out a quick hello to Mrs. Hudson. John shucked his coat, tossing it on his chair and limped up the steps to his room slowly.

John had no idea what woke him up later that night. He usually didn't sleep very deeply (once a soldier, always a soldier), except when he was dreaming about one of his and Sherlock's cases, like he'd been tonight. Usually, it took a bomb going off to wake him from one of those, but he'd shot strait up tonight for no apparent reason. He sat there, listening for whatever had woken him. Hearing nothing, he went to lie down again.

_Thump._

As quickly and quietly as he could manage, John reached over for his gun, getting out of bed slowly. Glad he'd left his door open earlier, he carefully made his way down the stairs, his gun preceding him and limp forgotten.

Carefully, John stepped into the sitting room. "Who are you, and what are you doing in my flat? I do have a gun, and I don't miss often." John almost smiled, remembering his first case, the cabbie case. No, he didn't miss often at all.

"Tea, John?"

John froze. His brain shut down for a moment, then restarted, going twice as fast. He shouldn't have been surprised, he mused. After all, he'd never really given up hope that it had all been a trick. That deep, melodic baritone could only belong to one person, after all. One supposedly very dead person.

John flipped the light switch, taking stock of the scene in the kitchen. Perfect black suit, the purple shirt, spotless loafers, coat and scarf draped carelessly over one of the kitchen chairs.

"_You bloody git. _You let everyone think that you're dead! You let ME think that you were dead!" John's voice was quickly increasing in volume from the whisper he'd started at to a yell as he went on. He couldn't bring himself to care at the moment. "You made me _watch_, you bastard! I watched my best friend jump off a roof and smash against the sidewalk! Why the bloody hell would you- could you- do that to me?! You were probably at your own funeral, weren't you?! You heard every damn word I said at your grave, didn't you?! Do you even know how much pain you caused, you insufferable arse?!" John's final, wordless yell was drowned out by the retort of his gun as he whirled and emptied his clip into the smiley face on the wall.

Sherlock just stood there, looking mildly stunned. The only sound in the entire flat was John's harsh breathing, making it easy for both of them to hear the exact moment Mrs. Hudson started up the stairs, yelling for John. Sherlock turned quickly back to the tea he was making, finding a third cup and mulling over what John had said.

"John Hamish Watson!" John cringed at Mrs. Hudson's screech, hearing a faint chuckle from behind him just before the door to the flat was thrown open by the irate landlady. "What on God's green earth do you think you're doing, shooting my wall at two in the morning? Just because Sh-" Mrs. Hudson stopped herself from saying his name; she hadn't said it since his funeral. It hurt too much. "_He_ did it does not give you the right to to-"

Feeling terrible, but needing to explain himself, John interrupted his landlady. "I assure you, Mrs. Hudson, that I have a VERY good reason to shoot your wall."

The "reason" took the half-second of silence to speak up. "Tea, Mrs. Hudson?" He'd only spoken five words in the last half-hour, but he'd managed to shock two people into silence. The second's reaction was much different from the first's, though, for which Sherlock was slightly grateful.

Mrs. Hudson paled, tears filling her eyes, and turned to where Sherlock stood, waiting. She held her hand out- behind her, to John. "John, is it… is it really him?"

John stepped around her, toward Sherlock, stopping when he was close enough to the taller man to touch him. "One way to find out. What did you say to me, on the phone? When you phoned me, before you jumped." The last bit was aimed toward Sherlock, but John heard Mrs. Hudson's breath hitch at the mention of Sherlock's supposedly fatal final act.

"This phone call… It's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note" Sherlock looked away from John as he recited the words from his and John's last conversation, words he couldn't delete, no matter how many times he tried. John was glad Sherlock had looked away; if he hadn't, he'd have seen it coming, stopped it. Since he didn't, John's fist met no resistance on it's way to Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock lurched backwards in surprise, and Mrs. Hudson yelped. John was breathing hard again as he turned toward his landlady. "It's him." Turning back to Sherlock, he smiled grimly. "Better finish up with that tea, mate. We're going to need it." John gently led Mrs. Hudson into the sitting room, placing her in his chair and returned to the kitchen to help Sherlock with the tea.

"Look, Sherlock- I'm not going to apologise for hitting you, because you have to admit that you _did _deserve it." He smiled tightly at his friend as he put two sugars in Sherlock's cup.

Sherlock hid a smile, rubbing his cheek. "I suppose I did, didn't I?" John gaped at his friend. Sherlock never admitted to such things. Ever. He looked up to see the smile that Sherlock couldn't hide any more. Shaking his head, John carried the tea tray in to Mrs. Hudson.

Eight hours later, John and Sherlock were still talking. Mrs. Hudson had gone back to bed around six, three hours ago. While she and Sherlock said goodnight, John took the opportunity to call in sick to the surgery. He figured the less people knowing that Sherlock was back the better, and John knew he wasn't going to make it to work. There was still too much he and Sherlock needed to talk about.

Once Mrs. Hudson had left, John asked the question that weighed the heaviest on his mind. "So, now that you're not dead, are you going to move back into the flat? Your room's the same, I just moved your experiments in there. Except your eyeballs. They're in the cupboard. And your skull. He's still on the mantle." John held his breath, waiting- and hoping- for what he might hear.

Sherlock looked away again, toying with the edge of his once again empty cup. "If you'll have me back." He didn't look up while he awaited the verdict.

He tried to fight it, honestly he did. John burst out in hysterical laughter. Sherlock turned, incredulous. "Of course you can come back, you nutter. You pay half the rent, remember?" Once he could put together a full sentence, he couldn't help but rib his flat mate. Sherlock grinned, and together they succumbed to fits of laughter.

When they'd calmed down enough that they were able to breathe without much difficulty, John's phone started buzzing.

"Hello?"

"John, it's Lestrade. I've got a case for you and I-"

"Greg, bring it to my flat." John kept talking before the Detective Inspector could object. "Trust me, there's something here you're going to want to see. But don't bring anyone with you, ok? Especially not Donovan or Anderson."

Lestrade sighed, but gave in. "Fine. You're only ever cryptic when it's important. I'm warning you, though- this had better be good. I'll be there in twenty."

"Good. Oh, it will be, I promise. See you then."

Once he'd hung up, John turned to Sherlock. "Lestrade's bringing us a case. He'll be here in twenty minutes; I figured he should know about your amazing recovery." Sherlock's face brightened so much at the word case, John wondered if he'd even heard the bit about Lestrade knowing that he wasn't dead.

John sent a grumbling Sherlock into the kitchen to start more tea fifteen minutes later. A good thing too, because at the same moment the kettle whistled Lestrade rang the bell. John got up to let him in, leading the way up the stairs.

"What's this thing I need to see so desperately, John? You said it was-" Lestrade stopped as a cup of tea was extended out from behind him; the DI was still facing a now smirking John, who had his arms crossed; obviously not the one offering the tea.

"Drink it before it gets cold, Lestrade." Sherlock's mirth was evident in his strained tone as the DI took his tea and turned around.

"Is that…"

"Yep." John was fighting laughter again too.

"But that's Sh…"

"The one and only." This time Sherlock took over, so John could take a moment to calm himself.

"But you're…"

"Obviously not." This time, both John and Sherlock responded at the same time, which sent them over the edge again. Apparently lack of sleep and an over abundance of caffeine could affect them both, in large enough quantities. Lestrade practically fell onto the couch.

"You faked it, you clever git." Now even Greg was starting to laugh. "I should have known. You wouldn't kill yourself. Too boring. Anyway, I do have a case for the two of you. It's a good one- a murder, your favorite, Sherlock. John's been taking cases with us while you were dead, but this one's difficult. No prints, shoe impressions. Not that any of my blokes can find, any way."

"Are you really surprised by that, Lestrade?" Sherlock sighed, shaking his head. "Who's working this one?"

"Anderson." Lestrade broke into a wide grin. "Oh, this is going to be good. Bloody brilliant, more like!"

_**Author's Note:**_** Well? What do you think? Oh, and I'm American, so if I got anything wrong with my British stuff, feel free to point it out. I'm trying to make this as authentic as possible. Review, if you'd be so kind! All are appreciated and read.**


	2. Freak's Pet and The Ghost

_**Author's note**__**- Merry Christmas, everyone! I hope everyone's holidays are going wonderfully! So, the fantastic OboeChica, beta extraordinaire, has polished yet another chapter for you, and I'm posting it as my Christmas present for all of you fantastic readers! I hope you enjoy chapter two, everyone! Reviews would be your Christmas presents to me, and I try to respond to everyone I get. Enjoy, and Happy Holidays!**_

Chapter Two- Freak's Pet and The Ghost

When the trio arrived at the scene, Sherlock allowed John to take the lead. He wanted to be discreet for a little while longer.

Lestrade led them up a set of stairs and into a large room. When he entered, Anderson looked up from where he was fruitlessly dusting for fingerprints. When John stopped in the doorway, observing the scene before him, Anderson groaned.

"Really, Lestrade? You brought the Freak's pet in on this one too?! Honestly, do you just come 'help' us because you miss your master, Watson?"

John forced himself to stay calm, and the tall man hiding behind and to the side of him- out of Anderson's view must have received John's telepathic command to stay silent for a few more moments. "Well, Anderson, that could be a reason- if I missed Sherlock. But I don't, so why don't you keep trying to think up something intelligent to say, hmm?" With this last biting comment, John stepped into the room, giving his friend the go ahead.

"Really, Anderson. What's there to miss?" Sherlock entered he room with his usual dramatic flair.

Anderson went as pale as the ghost he was surely comparing Sherlock to at that very moment. "But… But… This is impossible!" He nearly dropped his fingerprint duster, and Sherlock sighed.

"You're doing it again, Anderson." Anderson looked up at the man towering over him, a mask of disgust on his face.

"And what, exactly, am I doing again, Freak?"

"Lowering the IQ of the entire street. Now be a good lad and shut up, would you?"

Incensed, Anderson rstormed from the room. The three left behind looked at each other and simultaneously said "Donovan." Sure enough, 17 seconds later, the boys were all looking busy. John was hiding Sherlock's slender and stooped frame with his own while talking to the DI, when Sergeant Sally Donovan leaned against the door casing.

"What's going on, Greg, John? Anderson's just come out rambling something about ghosts and IQs."

John was concentrating on not bursting into hysterical laughter for the forty-seventh time that day when Sherlock said "That's because Anderson's an idiot," and stood.

Donovan managed a strained "Freak!" before having to lean even more heavily on the casing. Collecting herself, she looked back to the now serious John and Sherlock.

"I'm not even going to ask how you pulled it off, Freak. I don't want to know. And I can't believe I'm saying this, but welcome back to the land of the living. Life's been a bit dull without you to insult." With that, Donovan went down to where the rest of the police force was keeping the intrigued public away from the scene.

"You were right, Greg. That was worth every moment of having to listen to Anderson talk." Grinning, John bent to begin examining the body.

"Knew it would be. You blokes have five minutes. Hope you're not rusty, Sherlock." With a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, Lestrade left them to their own devices.

The body was of a young blonde girl around 16 years old, John guessed. She was tall and fit, approximately 6 feet tall and 185 pounds, most of which was muscle. The girl showed no outward signs of a cause of death. John lifted one of the girl's eye lids. Petechial hemorrhaging. Hmm. There was no ligature mark around the girl's neck, nor any visible fibres around her mouth or nose. That eliminated strangling or smothering. As John leaned in for a closer look at the girl's hands to see if there were any defensive wounds, he caught a whiff of something.

"Sherlock, do you-"

"Chlorine, John. I believe it's coming from our victim. Smell her hair."

John leaned farther in, doing as the detective instructed. There it was again, the chlorine smell, stronger this time. Sherlock was right. Again. "Chlorine… Sherlock, go ask one of the forensics people for a swab." John's tone brooked no argument. And for the first time in the history of ever, Sherlock did what he was told without argument or comment of any kind. He knew what had happened, but he enjoyed watching his blogger piece together the puzzle Sherlock had already mostly finished. Returning with the swab, Sherlock watched as John carefully pried open the victim's mouth, dipping the swab in. It came back out wet and smelling of Chlorine. John gave a self-satisfied smirk. "She was drowned in a pool. Strange, though. Normally it's the Thames." John looked up at his friend to see how well he'd done.

He was rewarded with a large, genuine smile from Sherlock. "Fantastic, John!" John's jaw dropped. This was turning out to be a day full of surprises; first Sherlock not being dead, and then a shining bit of praise from the same detective that continuously called everyone idiots. "The fact that she was drowned in a pool is probably going to be one of the most important pieces to solving this case. She's obviously a swimmer; her shoulder and leg muscles are developed perfectly for the sport. From the muscle tone and the long, thin body type, I'd venture a guess that she's quite the competitor. Could be why she was killed. Not sure." Sherlock growled, the sound low and frustrated. "Damn it! I need more! This one's clever; nothing telling left behind. He was careful; the body was dry before she was placed here; there's no pattern on the wood where the water would have soaked in had she still been wet." Sherlock growled again, tousling his dark curls. He hated it when he couldn't solve a case with the first body. That always meant there would be another one, and even though this gave Sherlock more to find the killer with, he hated to see the waste of human life, though he'd never admit it to anyone. Except maybe John. John would understand. "There's nothing more I can do without an identity. Let's let the forensics team finish up and go home, shall we?" John nodded, understanding his flatmate's disquiet.

"Good idea. I'm knackered, and you should get a few hours rest too, so your brain can run at full speed for the next few days. I have a feeling you won't sleep for a while. Save up a few hours that you can fall back on as this goes on?" Sherlock nodded. John had a point. This one was proving difficult, and Sherlock wouldn't want the distraction of sleep as he got further embroiled in the case. After Telling Lestrade what they'd discovered and leaving instructions that the body was to go to St. Bart's for Molly to look after, they hailed a cab and headed home.

John rubbed his eyes, yawning. The alarm said it was nearly six thirty; they'd gotten home around two that afternoon - four and a half straight hours of sleep during a case? This had to be a new record. Yawning again, John slid out of bed to see if Sherlock was awake yet. Amazingly enough, the detective was still dead to the world when John peeked into his room. Shaking his head in bemusement, John went into the kitchen and started some tea as quietly as he could.

Fifteen minutes later a very bedraggled and half-asleep Sherlock stumbled his way into the kitchen, rubbing his face. "Two sugars, please, John." John stared at him for a moment, a strange sensation running through him at the sight of his flatmate's state- hair more mussed than usual, lines on his face from the creases on his pillow and sheets, eyes half lidded and still blurry from sleep. And he'd said please. That was rare too. John placed Sherlock's cup and saucer in front of the sleepy man and reached out to feel Sherlock's forehead with his wrist.

Sherlock jumped but didn't shove John's arm away. "What on earth are you doing?" Sherlock was perplexed. John had never done this before, but the blonde's 'I'm a doctor and you'll do as I say' face was firmly in place. It was dangerous to ignore that face. Normally it meant hot tea and toast practically being shoved down his throat.

"You seem less… Sherlocky than normal this evening. I was just making sure that you aren't ill."

Sherlock fought the smile that was threatening to spread across his face. "And your diagnosis, my good Doctor?"

John didn't even try to hide the smile that resulted from the easy banter he'd missed in the past months. "You're just your normal sociopathic self, my dear Mr. Holmes."

Grinning, the two went about their supper, with Sherlock actually eating the toast John put in front of him.

As soon as Supper was over, Sherlock's brain kicked in. He strode to the window, his back to the rest of the flat, and begin to play his violin.

The song started out slowly, very gradually growing faster. John could have sworn it went from sounding sad and defeated to happy and triumphant. He stopped picking up the table and listened. He loved it when Sherlock played songs like this. They were fantastic, full of the emotions Sherlock continuously tried to hide. Listening to Sherlock play was one of the best ways for John to get inside his friend's head. When the music stopped, John walked quietly into the room. "That was beautiful, Sherlock. I don't remember ever having heard that one before."

"You haven't. I wrote it after my fall. It wasn't even complete, until just now." Sherlock looked haunted for a moment, as if he were reliving the months of his death, so John asked the obvious to distract him.

"Why wasn't it finished, Sherlock?" John looked at his friend.

"Nothing seemed right; I tried numerous ways to end it- it was a long, boring six months. I had a lot of time on my hands. But no matter what I tried, it simply sounded wrong. When I was playing just now, it was like a block was removed that I hadn't even known was there." Sherlock mentally slapped himself. He didn't get melancholic. That was emotion, it was sentiment, it was weakness. Sherlock didn't do weak. Besides. He had a case! He hadn't had a case in far too long. He forced his brain to focus on that, rather than his… feelings, which he stored away in a dark cupboard in his Mind Palace so he could analyze them when this bit of The Work was done. With their storage, his brain ramped up to warp speed.

John saw the exact moment when Sherlock shut himself off from his feelings and began on the case. Because contrary to popular belief, Sherlock had feelings, and John knew when they were raging inside of his flatmate. John knew that Sherlock only constructed the wall between himself, his emotions and the rest of the world so he wouldn't get hurt. Because Sherlock still believed he had to go it on his own, without anybody to lean on for help. John sighed, wishing Sherlock would let him in. He went to the kitchen and finished picking up the table to the sounds of a very rushed rendition of Motzart's Violin Concerto Number Three in G major.

Just as Sherlock was starting in on some other piece of music he'd memorized, John's phone buzzed.

"Bit popular now, aren't we John?" Sherlock was amused with the turn of events. Usually it was his phone going off, not the ex-soldier's. Granted, most if the world did still think he was dead…

"It's Molly. She's done the autopsy on our vic; she's running a DNA test too, to see if she can help identify her. Mostly it's what we already know- 16, drowned, swimmer. She say's she'll text me if she finds out more. Says I can come in any time tonight if I want another look at the body. She must not know you're back; she didn't mention you." Sherlock made a small noise of agreement. He'd have to text Molly; he couldn't let John know that Molly had helped him in his death-defying stunt. John would never trust him again. Not that Sherlock cared.

"Do you have a shift at the surgery tomorrow, John? We should go look at the body. I'm thinking, and I'd rather not interrupt the process, but if you do, we'll go now. I want your opinion."

"You're in luck. I have tomorrow off." John was glad Sherlock had invited him along- the cases just hadn't been the same without the consulting detective beside him. The doctor began to yawn; apparently his body had to acclimate to less sleep again. John had spoiled himself while Sherlock was away. He checked his watch; it was nearly ten already. "I'm off to bed Sherlock. I'll be up around seven, if you want to get to Bart's early."

Sherlock gave John a look that said 'again?' and 'dull!' when John made the comment about sleep, but turned thoughtful at the rest of what his friend said. "That should be fine, John. I do have a feeling that it' s going to be a long day tomorrow." As John headed off to his room, Sherlock quietly began a rendition of the Prelude to the opera 'Carmen'.


	3. Of Tea and Sheets

Chapter 3- Of Tea and Sheets

_**Author's Note:**__** Chapter three, everybody! I had a lot of fun writing this, even if it was one of the harder chapters I've ever written. Thank you for all of your favorites and follows and reviews! I looked at my view counter earlier; I've gotten 318 reviews since I posted this three months ago! I'm so glad people are reading and enjoying this. I love all the feedback I get, and I respond to every review or PM. Hearing from my readers makes me work harder to please you all. If anyone has some specific thing from the series or original books that they'd like to see incorporated into the story, shoot me a message and I'll see what I can do! Without further ado, I hope you like this new chapter, and review at the end. Allonsy!**_

John moaned and rolled over, trying to stay asleep despite an annoying bouncing he couldn't place and a deep voice that wasn't making any sense. His alarm hadn't gone off. He'd have heard it. Groaning, the doctor opened one eye and glanced at his clock. It read 6:19. He sat up quickly, banging his head on something. Rubbing his forehead, John glanced up at Sherlock, who was rubbing his in the same way. "Sherlock! What are you doing?! It's not even close to seven. What did you think of?" John knew the only reasons Sherlock would have woken him up were A.) the flat was on fire and they were going to die, B.) Mycroft, or anyone else Sherlock found equally distasteful was there and Sherlock wanted them out, C.) something exploded and he needed an extra set of hands to clean up with, or D.) He'd just thought of something vital to a case and needed either to bounce something off of John or his help. Since John couldn't smell smoke or chemical fumes, A and C were out, and he couldn't hear anyone downstairs, eliminating B, Sherlock must have had an epiphany.

"Her hair, John! It smelled of chlorine! If we get a sample of her hair, perhaps I can identify the exact chemicals and their concentrations in the pool where she was drowned. I was out all night getting samples from different pools around London, but we have to go in to Bart's to get the hair before there's too little of the chemicals left to identify!"

Sighing, John slid out of bed. "Alright, fine. I'm getting in the shower, you go call Molly. We can probably be there in a little over half an hour." Sherlock dashed from the room to get dressed and call Molly. Probably at the same time; poor Molly. John shook his head at the thought. Then he had another. "Wait!" John raced down the stairs to where his flatmate had actually frozen in place. John noticed and filed the information away for later. "You can't call Molly! She thinks you're dead! I'll call her after my shower; you just get whatever you need for your tests." After receiving a curt nod, John plodded back up the stairs. Waiting until he was out of sight, Sherlock snatched up his phone, texting Molly.

**John and I are coming to St. Bart's to look at the body. -SH**

He still doesn't know you helped me fake my death. I'd like to keep it that way. -SH

_Yeah, 'course; Sherlock. I'll act surprised and everything. Nothing to worry about. ~Molly_

Sherlock deleted the messages and flopped into his chair to wait for John.

John hurried through his shower, excited that his life was back to the hectic amazingness that it had been six months before. Toweling off, John grabbed the nearest pair of jeans and t-shirt. No time for a jumper; Sherlock would kill him if he took any longer than absolutely necessary. Picking up his phone, he dialed Molly.

"Hullo?"

"Molly? It's John. You've still got the body from the Yard, right?"

"Hi John! Yeah, I've only just finished the preliminary reports. What do you need to know?"

"I'll be over in a couple minutes with somebody else to look at it, alright? We need a sample of her hair."

"Yeah, sure. Who're you bringing, though? You never bring anybody along with you."

"Yeah... It's easier to explain in person. You wouldn't believe me anyway."

"Ok then. See you in a bit!"

"Bye, Molly." John wasn't sure, but he could've sworn he heard her sigh as he hung up. That didn't make any sense, though, so he put it out of his mind and went down stairs to his waiting detective and together they swept out of the flat and caught a cab to St. Bartholomew's.

…...

"You've gotta be prepared for tears, or even fainting, Sherlock. I've no idea how Molly's going to react to this. She was devastated when you did what you did, before. She had to do the autopsy. It was pretty bad for her..." John let the sentence trail off. There was something that didn't make sense, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Shrugging mentally, John pushed open the door to the mortuary, calling out his arrival.

"Hi, John! She's right over here..." If John hadn't been paying attention, interested in her reaction, he wouldn't have caught the fact that her gasp was slightly odd; it was forced, he realized. Behind him, he could practically hear Sherlock's eye roll. And then it clicked. Only one thing could explain Molly's abysmal fakery and Sherlock's rigid stance earlier when John had yelled for him before Sherlock could call her. He turned, squaring off with his friend. Sherlock's eyes widened slightly and he cursed.

John beat him to the punch, though. He growled, not giving the taller man the chance to do more than inhale and open his mouth before he started in. "When were you going to mention the fact that Molly knew? I'm going to take a leap here and guess she was your partner in crime for your Fall?" Getting a slight nod of assent, the blonde man pivoted, "No wonder you were back to normal sooner than the rest of us. You knew it was a ruse, Molly. How could you help the git and keep it from me, knowing..." He'd realised what had been bothering him before- Molly, who should have taken it the hardest, aside from John himself, had recovered the quickest. Sighing, the anger leaving as quickly as it had come, John rubbed his hands over his face, trying futilely to erase the hurt that lingered in its wake, missing the quizzical look Sherlock sent Molly's way and Molly's resultant look of defiance. Some things even Sherlock could not get out of her. John didn't realize the full extent of what he'd told Molly soon after Sherlock's fall, or why he'd been so destroyed by his best friend's death, far more so than any other of the detective's friends, but she'd understood immediately, and that was something she would share with no one. Not even Sherlock.

"Let's get this over with. Sherlock, go get your sample before the chemical levels fall too low." John leaned against the wall, waiting for his partner to do his thing. He wasn't disappointed. Sherlock retrieved a large test tube from one of his seemingly bottomless pockets and a pair of scissors from another.

Molly walked up behind John and put her hand on his shoulder. "You know he wouldn't have just left you like he did unless it was important. I couldn't tell you either. I watched you fall apart, knowing I could put you back together again, but also knowing that if I did, you'd go after him. That could have gotten the both of you killed. I am so sorry, John. So sorry. But it had to happen that way. Please, you have to understand at least that much. He hated doing that to you, knowing how it affected you. He had me watch over you, make sure you didn't do anything… Forgive him. And I hope that you'll be able to forgive me for all of this insanity, too." She gave him a gentle smile, not expecting the large, gentle hand that covered hers.

John looked at Molly, once again seeing the unerringly loyal, wonderful woman she was inside, the Molly Hooper only those who were close to her knew. A soft smile stole across John's lips. "I know, Molly. I know. Thanks for keeping tabs on him for me. And there's nothing to forgive. You're right- it had to be the way it was. If telling me would have put him in danger, it wasn't an option. Thank you, Molly. For everything." She blushed, mumbling her gratitude, and they both turned to the resident genius.

Leaning over the corpse, Sherlock turned her head to the left, grabbed a sizeable chunk of the golden ringlets underneath, by her neck, and chopped it off. The handful of hair was large, a good sample size, but not so large that it was noticeable. "There will be more chemicals at the nape of the neck; she had her hair up to keep it out of her face; most likely had one of those swim cap things on as well. The cap wouldn't do a fantastic job of keeping her hair safe from the water, not really supposed to, but the thicker ones do for a bit, so it'd keep a good deal of it out. The hair at her nape would be the most exposed, thus leaving me more chemicals to work with." When he finished carefully placing the strands into his test tube, he straightened and was greeted with the biggest grin he'd ever seen on John's face. Helpless to stop it, a matching grin spread itself across his own face. It was good to be back. "Shall we?" Sherlock gestured to the door.

"Let's." Chuckling, the two bid Molly farewell and headed back to 221B.

…...

John half ignored the mumbling coming from the room behind him as he sat and read his paper. He wasn't about to break Sherlock's concentration; he'd most likely have something sharp and pointy lobbed at the back of his head.

"John?" The tentative call caught the doctor by surprise. He turned around, knowing Sherlock would only interrupt one of his experiments for something important. He wasn't expecting what came next. "I'm sorry that I didn't tell you, but you had to believe it was true. If my own best friend, the man who knows me better than anyone else, even my brother, didn't believe, how could I expect Moriarty's people to? He was going to kill you, John. You and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. He had snipers trained on all of you; the only way to save you was to kill myself. I asked Molly because I knew she was the only person besides you who could help, and nobody would expect her. She was my only choice. Please understand. If I could have done it differently, I would have." By the end, John might have said Sherlock was almost pleading. The Great Sherlock Holmes was pleading. Another one for the calendar. Pleading as well as apologizing. A heartfelt apology. If Sherlock kept this up, he'd give John a heart attack. John was touched, though, that his friend felt like he had to explain himself. Smiling slightly, remembering his conversation with Molly, John got up from his chair and went into the kitchen.

He put the kettle on then turned to face Sherlock. "I know, Sherlock. I wish it hadn't been that way, but I understand." Fixing two cups of tea, he placed one next to Sherlock's Microscope and Petri dishes full of colourfully bubbling hair, patted the detective on the shoulder, and took his back to his chair. After a long sip of the tea, John went to pick up his paper again before he realized there was another person who might not know about Sherlock's rise from the dead. "Sherlock?"

A noncommittal grunt was his only answer.

"Sherlock. Mycroft." Sherlock's head shot up from his microscope and his cup clattered its way back into it's saucer.

"...Would it be a bit not good if I told you he still thinks I'm dead?" Sherlock's voice was nearly an octave higher than normal. "When I got in the other night, I checked for cameras. There were none, so there's a very god chance he doesn't know."

John dropped his head into the palm of his hand. He sat up a moment later, a grin on his face. "I think this is a good time to get him back for telling Moriarty your life story, don't you?" With a matching set of wicked grins, the Baker Street Boys started plotting as they grabbed their coats, sprinted down the stairs and out onto the street where Sherlock used his seemingly magic cab-hailing powers. Oh, this was going to be fun.

…...

Mycroft walked into his office with his nose stuck in the day's paper. He made it to his desk and was about to ring for tea before he realized that someone else was there. Startled (not that it showed, of course), he forced a smile and greeted John. "It's been a awhile, John. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

John stood, walking quietly closer to the desk. "Trust me, Mycroft. The pleasure's all mine." Mycroft's eyes widened comically as he felt the bite of the needle that was stabbed into his right arm, then promptly passed out, falling quite ungracefully into John's arms.

…...

When Mycroft awoke, he found himself in the familiar sitting room of 221B. He also realized that he was handcuffed to the desk, which had been moved rather closer to John's chair. The last and most humiliating thing he noticed was that he was only wearing a white bed sheet. Looking around for his captor, Mycroft shook his head. How on Earth had John managed to pull this off without Mycroft figuring out what was going on and putting a stop to it? He'd not seen the blonde since The Funeral, and Mycroft didn't think on that event unless it was absolutely inescapable. Why 'kidnap' him? John walked in and noticed that Mycroft had returned to the land of the living.

"How was the nap, Mycroft?" John snickered a little at the British Government's ludicrous situation. At the scowl John got as an answer, he called out to, so far as Mycroft could tell, the open air. "Oi, Sherlock! Sleeping Beauty's awake!" Mycroft choked a bit at this. John was talking to a man who'd been dead six months. He'd lost it; the pain of losing him had finally claimed John's sanity. Mycroft blanched at the realization. John had survived Afghanistan, PTSD, numerous cases with _him_, and the near-death experiences that came with it all- to lose his mind to grief. Mycroft wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he worried over John in the same way he'd worried over _him_. Sighing, Mycroft opened his mouth to try to reason with the apparently mentally unstable doctor.

Not that he got anywhere. John spoke again before Mycroft could. "Sherlock, get your arse in here before I drag it in." The calm threat was undermined by the fact that John was fighting a smile- and losing. Badly. Mycroft opened his mouth once more to again be cut off, this time by a low, rumbling growl.

"Give me a moment, John. I can't leave my experiment right this minute. I'll be out in 11.2 seconds." Mycroft's brain short-circuited. The first word to break through his shock was 'impossible', but there _he_was, standing right in front of him. What had he always said? Ah, yes- Rule out the impossible, and whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.

"Hello, Brother Dear! How _ARE_you?" Sherlock's cheerful voice was the thing that brought Mycroft back from his thoughts.

"Wonderful. You're looking quite well, for a dead man." Mycroft, though if any one asked he would deny it vehemently and then make the asker disappear, was hurt. From the looks of things, he was the last person to know. If Sherlock was doing experiments, even the Yard knew before Mycroft did.

"Yes. About that..." Sherlock and John jumped into an explanation of what had happened. Before much could me said, though, Mycroft held up the hand not attached to he desk.

"May I have my clothes back, before the story begins? I feel we'd all be much more comfortable. Could you two act like adults for once?"

Sherlock and John looked at each other. Mischievous grins spread across their faces. Turning to Mycroft simultaneously, they again looked at the Elder Holmes. Sherlock was the first to speak. "Oh, I think not, Mycroft. This isn't bothering us at all, and you've no say in the matter." John made a hasty escape into the kitchen to make tea so that he could control himself.

A few hours later, after everything that needed to be said had been said and more cups of tea than three of them cared to count, they finally uncuffed Mycroft. After he'd gone into John's room to change back into something more fitting of a man with a minor position in the British Government, Sherlock's phone buzzed. Looking at John, Sherlock answered it. Lestrade had another body. Completely forgetting about Mycroft, the boys grabbed their coats and headed for the crime scene. Mycroft exited the small room and went down into the sitting room, sighing when he found it empty. Grabbing his umbrella from where it had been carelessly tossed, Mycroft made his way back to the Diogenes Club, making a mental note to install more cameras in 221B Baker Street. Life was about to get back to normal, and Mycroft was nothing if not prepared.


End file.
